


In The Warehouse, In A Heartbeat

by all-or-nothing-baby (BundleOfSoy)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Alpha Derek Hale, Angst and Tragedy, Blow Jobs, Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Memories, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Consensual Underage Sex, Cuddling Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Dead Hales, Derek Hale Being an Idiot, Derek Hale Has Feelings, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is a Mess, Derek Hale is a Softie, Derek Hale's Beta Form, Derek Hale's Leather Jacket, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski UST, Emotional Derek Hale, Emotional Stiles Stilinski, Emotionally Constipated Derek Hale, Full Moon, Grief/Mourning, Hand & Finger Kink, Horny Derek Hale, Huddling For Warmth, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Mentioned Paige, Minor Character Death, Neurodivergent Stiles Stilinski, Neurodiversity, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles Stilinski, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Pining Derek Hale, References to Drugs, Sad Derek Hale, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Scent Kink, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Stiles Stilinski Has a Big Dick, Stiles Stilinski Has an Oral Fixation, Stiles Stilinski Is Brave AF, Stiles Stilinski is A Damsel In Distress, Stiles Stilinski is Not Amused, Stiles Stilinski is Seventeen Years Old, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski's Scent, Underage Sex, Underage Stiles Stilinski, Unrequited Love, Werewolf Biology, Werewolf Derek Hale, but only as a plot device
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BundleOfSoy/pseuds/all-or-nothing-baby
Summary: “Just keep quiet,” Derek said instead, then squeezed out from their hiding place with his ass pushed up as far against the pillar as he could manage, as not to literally rub dicks with the Disaster Human he had so much more than a crush on.ORFirst-time Sterek, featuring: Little Shit Stiles Stilinski, Sourwolf Derek Hale and the Huddling For Warmth trope with (eventual) lemons.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 35
Kudos: 208





	1. Stowaway

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I WILL NOT ABABNDON THIS. It's already finished, in my head. Plus I'm way too horny right now NOT to write it, lol.
> 
> Secondly, I've taken some liberties with timescales of canon incidents. Sue me. For example, Derek has only just become an Alpha here and yet has already become friendly with Deaton—unlike the show where, although they obvs know each other at this point, becoming "friends" takes a good while longer.
> 
> Thirdly, this was gonna be a drabble; a couple hundred words-worth (no artist/poet pun intended) of PWP. Then it became apparent it was destined for one-shot status... and now here we are with chapter one, lol. It's still sort of PWP, really. Well, okay, no. It's eventual porn with feelings, I guess. Or maybe slow build PWL (Porn With Love)?? I suppose what I'm trying to say, is it's gonna go much longer than I originally expected it to run and—apart from lots of UST, feels, some angst and hilarity, and lots of eventual lemons—not too much happens here. Not really. I'm just having fun :) 
> 
> Lastly, there is currently no plan for chapter updates—I'll just post when I can... soooo subscribe if you don't want to miss out, I guess? Haha, I'm so shit at self-pluggary.
> 
> Also, I'll add necessary tags as I go. If you think I've missed something that needs tagging, please feel free to let me know... 
> 
> Oh and the story's title is adapted from the name of a piece of music called In The House, In A Heartbeat from the 2002 Danny Boyle movie, 28 Days Later. Here's the link if you want to hear it: [YOUTUBE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ST2H8FWDvEA)
> 
> EDIT: THIS NOW CONTAINS MY ARTWORK, HUZZAH!

You know those days that begin normal... and end up like you'd imagine they would if you smoked twenty-four crack pipes in an hour? Well, that was Derek's day. That was _this,_ if you multiplied it by a lot more crack.

Stiles squirmed again—with too much nervous energy and whatever the fuck other reasons the annoying kid had—and a bony kneecap pushed itself a little way between Derek's thighs. The small shift in position caused Derek's heartbeat to shift gear and it was now thundering in his ears. It was ten times louder than the actual thunder outside which shook the few glass panes left in rotten frames of the disused factory Derek and Stiles were holed up in.

_Hell, feels as if the whole damn place is shaking._

But maybe that was just Stiles' fear of being found. Or Derek's fear of Stiles.

_Fear of not holding back anymore..._

Derek willed himself to focus. 

Currently, Derek had them wedged between a pillar and a wall. They were hiding from a pack of Weres that hailed from Wherever-The-Hell-This-Place-Was. Derek and Stiles had ended up here after having to abandon Derek’s original destination when an unexpected brewing storm had reached boiling point, becoming too much for his small speed boat.

The pair had been here before—not the location, that was new—but the situation: Stiles clinging to Derek to prolong life. The first time, it had been Derek's life that hung in the balance, in the swimming pool at Beacon Hills High. This time it was in reverse. Although, if Derek hadn’t have acted so fast, they might actually have both been dead meat by now.

The pair had also, astonishingly, managed to lose the few members of the local pack they’d run into (as per their hot-shit-luck) who had given chase. Derek had spotted the factory and dragged Stiles into the drafty, damp old building. Once hidden, Derek quickly ensured the ever-rowdy Stiles—the liability that was Derek’s beta's best friend—would keep shtum, the only way he knew how: gagging the kid with a firm hand. Derek had hoped the acrid stench of stagnant water from the tank that flanked the wall, would mask their scents.

It had, thank fuck.

_If those Weres had gotten to Stiles..._

So, with Derek and Stiles pressed together at this closer-than-close proximity, Stiles' spicy-syrup scent was an attack, overpowering Derek’s keen senses like it were hunting them for sport—and Derek was losing. For a couple of minutes, Derek had managed to hold his breath but eventually, even Weres needed to breathe. Now Derek took only the shallowest of breaths, wishing his body didn’t need any oxygen at all because... _Stiles._

Stiles Stilinski, the _Irritating Human Disaster_ —embarrassingly for Derek—smelled like everything Derek had ever wanted in a mate. Stiles Stilinski, _Every Alpha's Worst Nightmare_ —unfortunately for Derek—had _become_ Derek’s everything in the year he'd known him. Everything Derek dreamed or tossed-and-turned at night about, was now Stiles. It was all Stiles. 

_Stiles. Stiles. Stiles._

And for the life of him, Derek couldn’t even fathom why. Stilinski irritated the living shit out of him. The kid was unnecessarily loud; spoke way too fast; was infuriatingly clumsy and had a ridiculous, wiry frame that seemed worryingly more frail than all the other frail humans. Derek often tried to blame Stiles’ age for how irritating Stiles was. Derek himself was twenty-two, and Stiles had, what, just finished eleventh grade? Which made him... seventeen?

_Seventeen-year-old's were idiots, right?_

Derek certainly was at that age. In truth though, in a lot of ways, Stiles was a lot older than his actual age.

_Just like Derek._

And the kid was smart, like, really smart. And he cared. About everybody. Even _Derek,_ for some reason. Cared enough to consistently put himself in stupid danger, like stowing away on Derek's speedboat on what should've been a routine supply run to help out Deaton. 

All at once, as usual, Derek was as eager to bolt as he was to squirm a little closer, just as Stiles had a moment ago—even if that move had been unintentional. Derek now wondered briefly why Stiles hadn’t done anything about the fact his own thigh was now distractedly close to Derek’s crotch.

_Why the fuck hadn’t Derek?_

Usually, he’d never let his guard down like this with Stiles. Confused and frustrated, Derek's brain elected to simply stop. Thinking. About. It. After another moment, Stiles tried to jut his chin upwards a little under the pressure of Derek’s hand that was covering a sinfully pretty mouth, the one Derek had to instantly put out of his mind as soon as he’d pictured it.

_The kid wanted to speak._

Derek glared at Stiles from under his brow, then dipped his own chin down a touch and to his right, listening harder over the screaming wind and relentless rain, for any foreign sounds. Finally, it was once again only the foul weather outside he could hear. Well, that and a rat that scurried down the narrow gangways between the factory’s outdated machinery. Derek eased his grip around Stiles’ jaw and dropped his hand, slowly, so it hung between their chins; cautious, still dubious of the move.

Stiles whispered, “You think it’s okay to talk now?”

Derek rolled his eyes so hard he almost strained a socket. Derek was about to say _I think we’re alone now..._ before thinking better of it. “I think they’re gone,” he whispered back. He thought Stiles’ eyes flicked to Derek’s mouth for the briefest of seconds, but he couldn’t be sure. He really needed to get some space between them.

“Thank’s by the way, big guy. Thought we were toast there for a minute,” Stiles said, trademark smirk returning and his voice nearing a normal volume again. Normal for Stiles, at least.

Derek fought the urge to lean in the all-of-two-inches and kiss Stiles silent again. “Just keep quiet,” he said instead, then squeezed out from their hiding place with his ass pushed up as far against the pillar as he could manage, as not to literally rub dicks with the Disaster Human he had so much more than a crush on.

As Stiles slid out behind Derek, out into the open space of the factory floor, he grabbed the sleeve of Derek’s leather jacket and held on. Derek wouldn’t usually let this kind of behaviour fly but Stiles must have still been shitting his pants a little to try it. Against his better judgment, Derek let it slide. The factory warehouse wasn’t going to be the most comfortable of places to spend a night, but Derek knew it’d be safer to stay and try and make their escape in the light of the next morning. The pack of Weres could still be close by and the storm was now raging.

“We’re gonna have to find somewhere to bunk down. It won’t be-”

“...safe to leave right now. Yeah, I know that. I’m ADHD, Der, not stupid,” Stiles cut Derek off mid-sentence.

Derek’s wolf tried not to growl but couldn’t help it and a quiet rumble escaped his throat. Derek didn’t think Stiles was so sensitive about his neurodiversity—he never had been before, to Derek’s knowledge, so why bring it up now? And anyway, the sentiment behind the kid’s statement could not be further from the truth; Derek knew only too well that Stiles was far from stupid. He almost wished Stiles _was_ stupid, maybe then it would be only Stiles’ Pretty that Derek had to resist practically every second of every day.

Stiles huffed. “Look, let’s just see what we can find, okay? There’s got to be something in this house of horrors we can use so I don’t freeze to death just before I turn eighteen, right?” he said, letting go of Derek’s arm and starting to survey the area with his methodical precision.

Derek instantly felt like he’d lost his limb, not just the warmth of Stiles’ touch through his jacket sleeve. His wolf howled internally at him for being a creepy and pathetic loser, but Derek just schooled his features again and followed Stiles.

They weaved their way through the defunct machinery and towards the back of the building. Looking around, it became apparent this place was an old cereal factory—there was a ton of what looked to be flat-packed cereal boxes piled onto wooden pallets—and Derek, therefore, started to doubt Stiles’ positive outlook on finding blankets or sheets or the like. Stiles must’ve had the same thought because he mumbled, “Looks like I’ll be wrapping myself in cardboard to keep warm. Great.”

A loud thud at once echoed through the huge space and Stiles’ hand found Derek’s in less than a heartbeat. Derek instinctively flew in front of the kid, shielding him from whatever was coming.

There was another thud, a little duller than the last, and Derek followed the sound to a window just above them that still had glass in its frame. The sound had only been the wind blowing a tree branch against the rickerty pane.

“It’s just the storm, Stiles.”

Stiles cleared his throat, sounding a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I, er, I guessed that. I’m fine,” he said but, in his hubris, he didn’t seem to realise he still had a tight grip on Derek’s hand.

Knowing he really, really should put a stop to it, Derek chose to do nothing about the hand-holding situation. The thunder of his heart in his ears returned—and then another crack of real thunder sounded and Stiles released Derek’s hand but leapt around to face Derek, now fisting handfuls of Derek’s henley.

"Omygodohmygodohmygod!" Stiles wailed.

Derek’s usual defences against Stiles’ ridiculous ways really must have been down, because a small snicker escaped from his lips.

“Oh, fuck you, wolfman,” Stiles retaliated, churlish, once he had stopped shaking.

For the second time in no-time-at-all, there were only inches between them. With Stiles’ lungs working harder from the shock, Derek could feel the kid’s feathery breaths on his face. It was actual torture, yet he still did nothing to remedy the situation.

_Fucking masochist._

Stiles backed away and Derek instantly regretted making fun of the kid. Being human in this kind of situation—with only a werewolf for company who can’t even be friendly at the best of times, as an act of self-preservation—must be tough.

“I’m… sorry,” Derek murmured, grabbing Stiles hand and leading him towards a door he’d spotted on the back wall.

Obviously, Stiles was incredulous.

“Did you… Dude, did you just _apologise?_ To _me?!”_

Derek winced and said, “Don’t call me dude,” but Stiles continued regardless.

“Ohhhhh, dude! I really wish I’d’ve recorded that so I could play it back on a loop every time you’re a dick to me!”

Irritated, Derek spun around to face Stiles again.

“Stiles, the main reason I’m a dick to you is that you’re forever doing dumb shit that means I have to save your skinny ass!” Derek hissed through his teeth. If he wasn’t trying to keep things on the down-low, his voice would definitely have been raised.

Stiles’ smile faded.

“Yeah? Well if you asked for a little help once in a while, Sourwolf, I wouldn’t need to do so much dumb shit, now would I?” and with that, Stiles dropped Derek’s hand again, forcibly this time. He shoved passed Derek and made his own way to the door they were headed towards, which was probably some sort of backroom area.

_Shit._

Derek just stood there, a little gutted at upsetting Stiles in what must’ve been an already pretty upsetting situation. 

After allowing himself a moment of brooding, Derek simply followed suit, heading for the other room with his tail firmly positioned between his legs.


	2. House Of Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on,” Derek said, gently placing a big hand on Stiles’ waist; his encouragement for them to enter the room properly.
> 
> Stiles bit into his bottom lip, hard. The heat of Derek's hand on him was like fire on ice. 
> 
> Stikes couldn’t help it. “Okay, handsy,” he teased, stepping inside. Derek’s hand fell to Stiles’ hip and then away completely before Stiles was even fully in the room. As Derek followed—now a step behind—Stiles cursed his own big mouth for what was certainly not the first time in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to make this alternate POV. So here, have some Stilesy :)
> 
> Plus, OMG chapter two, already?! Get me!? And get yerselves ready for some surprises...

Stiles sometimes wondered why the hell he bothered. And really, if he were honest with himself, why _would_ Derek Hale give a shit about help offered from some mouthy, hyperactive kid?

Derek Hale, _Broody Loner._ Derek Hale, _Spiteful Sourwolf._ Derek Hale, _Supernatural Adonis._

Stiles absolutely hated the fact he had a crush on stupid Derek Hale with his stupid leather jacket and his stupid, epic monobrow.

And the thing was, Stiles really wasn’t _just some kid._ And not only because he hadn’t turned eighteen yet, but because of the fuck-ton of life's crap that life had already dumped on him. Losing one parent at age eight… and then having to almost become a parent to the other one came hand-in-hand with a pretty big dose of Grow The Hell Up; managing his Dad’s drinking and unhealthy eating habits for the last nine years really had been (and still was) a full-time job. Yeah, those kinds of things had the effect of adding those nine years lived, back onto your soul.

Regardless of the numbers or how much he wished the opposite were true, Stiles just wasn't a kid anymore. 

Plus, he had never been able to just sit back and watch shit happen, whatever the situation. Stiles had to help. He had to. He was just… made that way.

He pushed his hand down on the door handle and thankfully the door creaked open.

Inside was a pretty cramped space that at first looked like it used to maybe be a break room? But it couldn’t be, not in a workplace of this size. Then at second glance Stiles spotted a desk in the corner with a monitor on it (that looked like it was manufactured way back in the freakin’ iron age) and realised it must have been an office of some sort, one that was only really big enough for one person to work in—which was made all the more apparent when he heard Derek in the doorway just behind him and felt Derek’s breath on the back of his neck, causing the short hairs there to stand up on end with the heat of it. 

Stiles held back a shiver, along with the urge to spin around and shove Derek into the door jam using mainly his lips and hips.

“Come on,” Derek said, gently placing a big hand on Stiles’ waist; his encouragement for them to enter the room properly. Stiles bit into his bottom lip, hard. The heat of Derek's hand on him was like fire on ice.

Stiles just couldn’t help it. “Okay, handsy,” he teased, stepping inside. Derek’s hand fell instantly to Stiles' hip and then away completely before Stiles was even fully in the room. As Derek followed—now a step behind—Stiles cursed his own big mouth for what was certainly not the first time in his life.

Other than the desk that sat under a window which— _oh, thank you, thank you, God!_ —had an un-smashed glass pane in it, there was a single locker against one wall and an (albeit very uncomfortable looking) wooden framed and plastic-y-covered-office-sofa kind-of-job. It was the type that they had down at the cop station, the type that Stiles had spent many an hour sleeping on over all his years spent as the sheriff’s son. Derek shuffled past Stiles to take a look out of the mouldy old blinds covering the window, probably to check for any lurkers. Stiles stifled a snigger at the irony of the fact that it looked like it was _Derek_ who was the lurker, dressed all in black and peeping through the Venetian slats with a moody, creepy look on his face.

  
  


_Damn that moody, creepy, sexy bastard._

  
  


“Looks like we’re on our own,” Derek said, turning back to face Stiles and locking eyes with him. Stiles took a mental photograph of Derek's amazing, beautifully dark eyelashes. “What?” Derek asked, after a moment, no doubt catching Stiles ogling.

“Uhhh, what yourself?” Stiles threw back, totally unconvincingly.

Derek held his gaze for what felt like a couple seconds too long, then dropped his green eyes to the desk chair.

“I’ll, uh, I'll sleep on this when we get our heads down." Stiles wondered what they would do in the meantime. Derek nodded towards the plastic-y wonder to Stiles' left. "You can take the sof—”

Something back in the main part of the factory crashed to the floor, clattering loudly and echoing creepily through the huge building, cutting Derek's sentence short. The Alpha was a ninja, immediately yet soundlessly flying to the office doorway, pushing it not-quite all the way shut (sharp and fast enough that it didn’t creek) and using the new two-inch narrow gap to peer through. 

  
  


_Fuuu-hu-hu-huuuuuck._

  
  


Stiles—both willing himself not to piss his pants and mentally convince himself he’d never be able to move even half as quietly as Derek had—stayed rooted to the spot he stood on. After a few horrible, horrible moments of the loudest type of silence, Derek turned to Stiles, slowly, and pointed to himself, then to both of his eyes, then in the direction of the factory floor with a swift flick of his wrist. If this wasn't literary the worst time to do so, Stiles would probably have made some sort of Mission Impossible joke. 

Stiles did absolutely not want to be left on his own right now but knew he couldn't follow Derek without making any noise. He, therefore, had no choice but to let the Were slip out of the room, stealthily and alone, to investigate.

_What if the pack has returned? What if Derek gets hurt? Or kidnapped? Or… Or, shit, what if they fucking kill him?_

Stiles had to do something to help Derek, fast. But what the hell _could_ he do? Stiles was one hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones for Christ's sakes! 

  
  


_How the hell can that compare to Derek’s wolf?_

  
  


Stiles then flipped the switch from _Pointless Stiles-Bashing_ to _Useful Human Mode_ and started scanning the office for anything he could use as a weapon.

There was nothing. Well, nothing other than a metal waste paper bin underneath the desk.

Stiles grabbed it and quickly emptied its contents onto the threadbare carpet in as hushed a manner as he could manage at breakneck speed. He then, very carefully as not to jangle them, took his keys from the inside zip pocket of his parka coat.

He looked at the bin. Then at the keys.

The bunch of keys held a small lighter on one of the keyrings, had done ever since Stiles and Scott had quit the boy scouts and started camping out in Stiles’ back yard instead.

Stiles cursed himself once again when he released he needn’t have bothered emptying out the scrunched up waste paper balls from the bin. He could use the paper inside of the metal cylinder by setting light to it and having it cause some sort of distraction. Yeah… yes, Stiles could launch the burning effigy of all his hopes to help Derek from the doorway of the office, out and onto the factory floor, hopefully deterring any intruders from Derek’s presence. If he were to be honest with himself, generally speaking, Stiles wasn't exactly a good Lacrosse player—let alone best on the team or anything—but his throwing arm _was_ pretty lethal.

Stiles had just bent down to begin scooping the rubbish back into the bin, when the door to the office creaked, opening slowly.

Stiles stopped breathing. 

He couldn't see a thing from under the desk and his heart was in his throat, pounding like somebody was repeatedly, rhythmically punching him. But, never one to give up on anything or anyone, Stiles forced himself to begin to stand, bin and _goddammit_ -unlit paper at the ready to launch violently into whoever or whatever's face. And as he cleared the top of the desk…

Stiles' whole body sagged at the sight of Derek stood in the doorway, one disbelieving and almost bored looking eyebrow raised in question.

_“OhmyfuckingfuckDerekIthoughttheymighthavedecapitatedyouorsomeshitman,”_ Stiles word-vomited, arms flailing. 

“Decapitated?” Derek said, his blunt monotone making the question more of a statement.

Stiles could finally breathe again. “Or… some shit. Like I said,” he answered as he heaved those breaths in good, feeling his cheeks and tips of his ears turn what was probably a pretty embarrassing shade of pink.

"Anyways, there's nobody here." 

It was then that Stiles saw Derek held something in his arms. And when Stiles looked a little closer and realised what it was, his heart melted like day-old snow in the midday sun. Derek was carrying a very skinny, very raggedy looking cat.

Stiles said, “Nobody here but us and this little guy, huh? Oh my god, Der. You made a fwend!” Stiles tried his best not to squeal, as the statement was supposed to be a mockery. But he failed miserably, of fucking course. Like, by a longshot. The whole scene was just too fucking cute. Plus, he _had_ just thought they were about to possibly be murdered horribly. _Again_. So screw it. 

The furry, bedraggled feline thing looked over briefly at Stiles, then up at Derek before deciding to snuggle further into the Were's Arms, burrowing its head into Derek's chest.

  
  


_Aaaaand now Stiles was jealous of a cat. A damn cat._

  
  


Stiles then frowned. "Hang on, shouldn't that kitty be trying to claw your face off right about now? Or, like, at least be trying to run away as fast as it can in the other, _Derek-less_ direction?"

  
  


_Cats and dogs don't mix, right?_

  
  


“Guess there's no accounting for animalistic taste," Derek replied, deadpan.

Stiles' mouth was agape. "Um, did Mister Derek Hale, Sourwolf, just make an actual real-life joke? And a _doggy_ joke, to boot?!"

  
  


Derek said, “Should've recorded that one too because it's something you definitely will _not_ be hearing again." And Derek wasn't smiling as he said it, but his eyes were. 

Stiles smiled back with a smile a touch more shy than his usual smirk. Derek's lips twitched just a little bit, at one corner of his gorgeous mouth, but twitched nonetheless. Stiles realised he had an opportunity, here. One that was possibly a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing. Because how many times in all of your days are you gonna get holed up for one whole night in a creepy warehouse with your forever-crush? So, Stiles sure as shit wasn't going to waste this, because…

_Because life's too short, right?_

Stiles promised himself he was going to have to, somehow, make Derek Hale smile for real before the sun came up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Stiles,
> 
> You're doing fine, sweetie.
> 
> Love, me. xx
> 
> Stay tuned for a few more silly shenanigans and a shit-ton more USTy goodness... coming soon ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> <3


	3. Here For One Night Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's wolf howled inside of him, thinking about Paige, of how he felt about Stiles… and yet he still longed to take the couple of steps forward that would mean he could reach out and hold Stiles; Stiles who was here, alive, and just as beautiful as Paige had been, smelling so strongly of arousal and want ...
> 
> Could just unzip Stiles' parka and slide a hand inside of that red hoodie, inside and under the probable multiple layers of shirts, place fingertips on Stiles' lean abdomen; feel his sharp hip bones and cool, smooth skin as it puckers into goosebumps at the gentle graze of a Were’s warm touch…
> 
> Jesus Christ. Get. A. Fucking. Grip.
> 
> "Derek? Hey, are you... are you doing okay there, buddy?"
> 
> Derek hadn’t noticed he had turned to face Stiles again and was staring right at the kid. And… oh shit. He was actually fucking whining.
> 
> Tonight was a full moon.
> 
> That fact really wouldn't have mattered if he had been alone on this trip, as he should have been. It wouldn't have mattered at all, not if it had been anyone else here with him but Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: canonical character death in this chapter. It's a Derek POV memory of Paige and it's the paragraph that's entirely in italics.
> 
> Other than that, the moon is high in the night's sky and Derek's wolf is feeling... horny ;) 
> 
> Oh, and I shamelessly stole Derek's 'usual body temperature' from Stephanie Meyer's Twilight character, Jacob Black. Pls don't sue me, Steph... Lol.

For once, the urge to cover up Stiles’ mouth with the duct tape the kid used so freely on his jeep’s shot-at engine, wasn’t quite as strong as usual.

  
  


_For all of about ten seconds._

  
  


"Okay then, Sourwolf, we gotta find us some supplies to ensure I don't freeze to death in… wherever this hellhole place is we've found ourselves," Stiles said looking around, his pretty face scrunched up like the waste paper that was, for some reason, strewn all about the floor by his sneakers. Derek shot a well-practised glare in Stiles’ general direction. If the cocksure kid hadn't stowed away on Derek's boat in the first place, they would never have got stuck in this situation. He was about to say as much when Stiles seemed to read his mind.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, big guy. I shouldn't even be here, right? At least not by your dumb-ass rules, anyway." He quietly muttered the last few words of the sentence as if Derek's wolf wouldn't hear them. "But I am here. So... " and Stiles threw his distracting hands (one holding a wastepaper bin for some unfathomable reason) into the air, along with his even more distracting long fingers and his mind-of-their-own eyebrows, too. He also threw that trademark smirk onto his infuriatingly pretty face for good measure. 

  
  


_How come he always seems to know shit?_ _And why is he—those fingers and that smirk and every-fucking-thing else—just so goddamn hot?_

  
  


Once again, Derek had to force himself to focus.

  
  


Stiles continued. "The wood pallets we saw out there, on the factory floor?" and one of those distracting fingers pointed to the office door and main part of the factory beyond. "They should burn pretty well if maybe _you_ can be 'Derek The Lumberjack: Here for one night only, to both aggravate and titillate!'..." Stiles' said, voice curling into that of a cheesy entertainment announcer, his dark brows double flicking this time. 

Derek's face must have been a neon pink glow-stick in the dark. And Stiles was, of course, a moth to the flame.

"Aw, what, you never up chopped wood with your bare hands before, wolfman?" Stiles said, then began karate chopping the air.

Despite himself—and his reaction to Stiles thinking about him as some sort of erotic dancer dressed in, what? Flannel, a hardhat and jeans that rip apart at the front via velcro, with just one short, sharp tug?—Derek's lips twitched at the ridiculous sight of Kung-fu Stiles.

  
  


_Gotta give it to him: the kid always knows how to make light of a shitty situation._

  
  


Stiles smiled when he looked back at Derek. "Look, man, if you can break'em up ready for burning, we can maybe get a blaze going." He kicked at some of the waste paper balls at his feet, then said, "I got the fire." Stiles looked pretty pleased with himself as he wiggled a lighter in Derek's general direction, one that hung from his jangling set of keys.

"What are you, a boy scout?" Derek huffed, teasing, but keeping his face carefully blank. 

Stiles' face changed. "Not for a long time now, Der" he threw back, voice now serious, his amber gaze fixed steadily on Derek. It made Derek feel a little hotter than his usual one-hundred-and-eight degrees and he suddenly felt the urge to stop breathing again. Both the implication of Stiles' words—him not being a kid anymore—and the almost sultry look on his perfect face, caught Derek entirely off guard.

  
  


_Does he…?_

  
  


Nope.

  
  


_But what if he…?_

  
  


No. No. No.

Derek had to look away from Stiles, for fear of what he might do to him.

Was Stiles… was Stiles _flirting_ with Derek?

To be honest, it wouldn't be for the first time. Well, at least flirting wildly in general, that is. Stiles was always flicking those damn eyebrows lewdly and coming out with filthy comments and stupid innuendos. But never aimed solely at Derek, per se.

_Like, Stiles is just your typical teen with sex on the brain twenty-four-seven. Right?_

Except Stiles wasn't your typical teen. And Derek knew it. But Derek had to be a realist: Stiles was human and Derek was not. And that was something which Derek knew didn't mix. Derek had found that out in the most horrific of ways.

  
  


_Just as Paige had found out._

  
  


The terrible memories of Derek's doomed first-love descended. It hit him like a fucking house falling down on top of him, crushing every single bone in his body—just like every other time he thought of Paige.

  
  


_"I'm gonna die, aren't I?" she whispered._

_There was nothing Derek could do. It took all of his courage just to nod his head in affirmation, too cowardly to actually say the word._

_Paige was then wailing and writhing in his arms again, in utter agony._

_She was dying._

_"I can't, Derek. I can't do it anymore! Please!" she begged, asking the impossible of him._

_Again, Derek took as much of her pain as he could—almost too much, bringing himself nearly to the very brink of death, too._ _He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to go with her._

_Derek looked once more into Paige’s now faraway eyes._

_And then he murdered the girl he loved._

  
  


Paige had paid the price for Derek's naivety and stupidity—and no other human would suffer that, he'd promised himself. Not ever, ever again.

Derek's wolf howled inside of him, thinking about Paige, of how he felt about Stiles… and yet he _still_ longed to take the couple of steps forward that would mean he could reach out and hold Stiles; Stiles who was here, alive and just as beautiful as Paige had been, now smelling so strongly of _arousal_ and _want_...

_Could just unzip his parka and slide a hand inside of that red hoodie, under the multiple layers of shirts, placing fingertips on lean abdomen; feel sharp hip bones and cool, smooth skin as it puckers into goosebumps at the graze of a warm touch…_

  
  


Jesus Christ.

  
  


_Get. A. Fucking. Grip._

  
  


"Derek? Hey, are you... are you doing okay there, buddy?"

Derek hadn’t noticed he had turned to face Stiles again and was staring right at the kid. And… _oh shit._ He was actually fucking _whining._

Tonight was a full moon. The fact really wouldn't have mattered if he had been alone on this trip, as he should have been. It wouldn't have mattered at all, not if it had been anyone else here with him but Stiles.

  
  


_Stiles._

  
  


Again, Derek had to turn away. This time, fully, with his back to the kid. He could smell the confusion and worry now emanating from Stiles. So he did all he could do—what he had done so many times before—and ignored the situation entirely, pretending it simply hadn't happened.

Derek turned towards Stiles once more, but this time his eyes were anywhere but actually _on_ the guy he wanted to run away from.

  
  


_To run away with; to protect; to claim…_

  
  


With some difficulty, looking only at Stiles in his peripheral, Derek handed Stiles the cat (who didn't really seem to mind too much which warm body it was allowed to cling onto). He then took off his leather jacket and placed it over the back of the desk chair. "Put this on under your coat, it'll help keep you warm," he said.

"Derek, what's wron—"

"I'm gonna go do one last scout, take a look out of each window and try and cover up the broken ones with... whatever I can find.” Derek managed to keep his voice even. “And Jesus, Stiles, don't start a fire. You'll choke on the fumes, you moron."

"But—"

"Just put on the damn jacket, Stiles," Derek growled.

He shot a single _don't-fuck-with-me_ look at Stiles, then left the kid and the cat staring after him as he walked out into the main part of the factory, cursing himself.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Derek had finished checking all the windows, just as he'd said he would, using some flat cardboard boxes he’d found to wedge between any frames that had little or no glass left in them. He was now perched on one of the old machine benches. The particular contraption looked like it was maybe the thing that would have maybe shunted a measured amount of cereal into those plastic bags that acted as extra stay-fresh packaging inside of the box, for one-million-and-one types of different sugary maize and corn.

From his chosen perch, he had a perfect view of the moon’s yellowy glow; a perfect ball, clearly visible even though the storm’s jagged forks of lightning and angry, slate-grey clouds. She was huge, tonight. Derek felt her pull, as usual, willing him to _shift, shift, shift._ Each and every full moon was a trying and intense experience for Derek, same as any other Were. But it was also entirely manageable, these days.

  
  


_Usually._

  
  


Ever since Derek had learned how to control The Change, fighting it off monthly had become just another part of his life. Staving off what his biology pleaded of him—to morph into his Were form, with claws and teeth bared; animalistic senses and desires allowed to take the primary lead—had gotten easier and easier, with practice. It still wasn’t exactly a breeze, not by any stretch, but it certainly wasn’t the difficult situation it had been at puberty before he knew the technique to stop it from happening. The only times fighting it off was harder was when he was... when Derek’s libido was higher than usual. Like here and now, being caught alone in a cramped space with the object of his every recent fantasy.

  
  


_You could leave him in there. Stay out here, alone. Stay awake. Keep watch._

  
  


Derek knew he couldn’t do that. Stiles would likely freeze to death. Derek closed his eyes and tried to just breathe, trying to calm his wolf. But all he saw behind his lids was Stiles.

  
  


_The swirl of amber in those big brown eyes... the teasing curve of his beautiful upturned nose... those gorgeous, gorgeous lips, whispering_ ‘I want you to keep me warm, Derek’ _right into an ear as he slides those long, slim fingers below the waistband of someboy's jeans and..._

  
  


Derek took what he begged would be a sobering breath. His claws had extended slightly and they now dug half-moon crescents into his palms as his hands balled into tight fists. The irony of that image did _not_ amuse him.

_Why did it have to be a full moon?_

  
  


What was making everything worse, was Stiles’ behaviour tonight. Was he just being his usual crude-self? Or was the kid making genuinely flirtatious remarks towards Derek?

  
  


_Did Stiles want what Derek wanted?_

  
  


Derek had no way of knowing, not without asking outright. And, obviously, that was _not_ about to happen. Derek was supposed to be resisting his urges, not giving into them.

He needed a distraction.

Derek listened out for the rat he’d heard earlier on. If he could locate and catch the thing, he could take it back to the office for the dumb cat he’d accidentally befriended. A meal would keep the straggly little thing happy for a while, keep it quiet.

  
  


_If the cat was happy, Stiles would be happy._

  
  


But Derek was then instantly worrying about Stiles’ possible hunger. Would the kid have even thought to have brought any supplies? Derek could easily go a day or two without eating, but Stiles? He was already so damn skinny.

  
  


_So slim and slight, no weight to him at all... be so easy to lift him up and clutch that wiry frame tightly, close, then lay him down and climb on top of him and..._

  
  


Every thought. _Everything!_ It all led back to Stiles.

Derek stopped fighting back the growl that wanted to crawl up and out of his throat and let his claws and canines extend fully. His senses all sharpened and his ears now twitched with every tiny sound.

It was time to hunt.

* * *

When Derek caught the rat, the poor creature didn’t know what the hell had hit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Derek,
> 
> Your issues are totally understandable, babey. BUT. You gotta start trusting somebody, at some point... *hints, not at all subtly* *cough* MIECZYSLAW STILES STILINSKI *cough*
> 
> Love, me. xx
> 
> Thanks for staying with me on this, guys! More USTY Stiles for the next chapter... and maybe some truths that will shake things up a little for the boys ;)
> 
> Back soon with another update, stay tuned!
> 
> <333


	4. Princess Leia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Derek just needed someone to gently smooth the worried crease from between his brow, maybe run a thumb pad along those high cheekbones, along his perfect lips… and then he'd open up wide and let you slide that thumb inside of his hot, wet mouth, along his teeth and tongue and… 
> 
> Stiles had absolutely no idea why that kind of housewife romance bullcrap gave him a half-chubby. But it did—especially when it came to Derek Hale.
> 
> "Guess I don’t write the rules on the kinky shit, huh, Kitty?" he said, adding a one-shoulder shrug.
> 
> The cat only pushed it's head further into Stiles' hand, in hope of more affection.
> 
> And who the hell was Stiles Stillinski, if not a giver?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Hilarious Stiles Stilinski. #Brave Stiles Stilinski. #Giver Stiles Stilinski.
> 
> You go, babey!!

"So that was fucking weird,” Stiles said to the cat. “Do _you_ know what the hell just happened? ‘Cause I sure as shit don’t."

The cat only mewed back at Stiles; a choked-off and meek, thin curl of a sound.

Had Derek really been...

  
  


_…whining?_

  
  


Usually, Stiles would have had a field day with the mere thought of it and been left grinning ear-to-ear like Wonderland's Cheshire Cat, queuing up the banterful jokes in his head. But the strained look on Derek’s face that had accompanied the high-pitched noise from a few moments ago did not sit well with Stiles. Something really _off_ had definitely just happened, but that something must have transpired only in Derek’s ridiculously good-looking head.

  
  


_Dogs whine when they want something, right? Or maybe when they’re… sad?_

  
  


Stiles was painfully aware of the limited facts he had to work with:

1) Stiles had never actually owned a dog.

2) Derek was a werewolf, not actually a dog at all. 

3) Stiles had no real idea of how far any possible similarities between the two species (one canine, one supernatural) actually went.

Brows knitting together in a sharp V, Stiles scratched at the matted fur behind the cat's gnarly looking, beat-up ear. The animal preened, leaning into Stiles' touch and purring loudly, clearly loving the gesture. Who knew how long it had been since poor Kitty had been held?

  
  


_Huh._

  
  


Maybe Der just needed a loving scratch behind his pointy, wolfy ears.

  
  


_Maybe he just needs someone to gently smooth the worried crease from between his brow... to tell him everything is gonna be okay... maybe run a thumb pad along those high cheekbones, along his perfect lips… then he'd open up wide and let you slide that thumb inside of his hot, wet mouth, along his teeth and tongue and…_

  
  


Stiles had absolutely no idea why that kind of housewife romance bullcrap gave him a half-chubby. But it did—especially when it came to Derek Hale.

"Guess I don’t write the rules on the kinky shit, huh, Kitty?" he said, adding a one-shoulder shrug.

The cat only pushed it's head further into Stiles' hand, in hope of more affection.

And who the hell was Stiles Stillinski, if not a giver?

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Stiles had cleared up the rubbish he’d strewn about the place earlier, dumping it back in its wastepaper-basket home. He’d counted his supply of beef jerky sticks he had shoved inside one of his coat pockets before sneaking out of the house via his bedroom window much earlier on in the evening. He’d then proceeded to share one of said beef jerky sticks with the hungry kitty, who had almost taken his hand off in the process. He’d even had the time to rename Kitty, having decided that calling the kitty ‘Kitty’ was actually pretty dumb. She seemed to be really into her new title and Stiles definitely thought the name suited her. (Yeah, we were going with _her_ ).

The rain was coming down even harder now, creating a roaring and constant beat on the windows and roof. Stiles quietly drummed his fingers on the office desk, in some sort of not-really time to it.

Der had been gone too long.

Stiles started to become nervous that Derek was going to stay in sulk-mode and maybe wasn't going to come back to their shitty little office haven at all. And then Stiles would be left alone with only a half-starved feral cat (that was even skinnier than he was) as his sole company and source of warmth for the rest of the foul night trapped in this Baltic-Esque, spooky-ass place. Not good.

  
  


_Gotta at least be in the same room as the big guy to be able to coax a smile out of him._

  
  


Stiles plopped the cat onto the desk and unzipped his parka, taking it off with a wild shiver. He quickly picked up Derek's leather from the back of the desk chair where Derek had left it for Stiles and slid his arms inside of it.

  
  


_Still warm._

  
  


Stiles yanked the zipper up most of the way and then turned the collar up to keep the cold from the back of his neck.

  
  


_Still smells of him._

  
  


Derek smelled like Italian leather, musk, and moss from the woods down in the reservation. Stiles breathed in the earthy scent like his life depended on it.

Stiles Stilinkski was wearing Derek Hale's jacket. 

  
  


_Like a cheerleader wearing her boyfriend's varsity bomber, oh my god!_

  
  


Stiles couldn’t have helped the smile that crawled across his face, even if somebody had paid him a thousand dollars to do so.

He now shoved his arms back into his own coat, leaving the zip half-done. Then he picked up the cat again and deposited the scruffy fluffball—who needed no encouragement whatsoever—inside of both coats, trying not to think too hard about fleas and god-only-knows what other creepy-crawly bugs were paying rent at _Chez Feline._ With the fuzzy thing now snuggled up close to his chest, Stiles (kinda glad he had another three layers on between the stray and his bare skin; _no offence, cat_ ) pulled both zips back up almost fully and stepped out into the extra-chill-tastic main part of the factory once again.

He stepped cautiously, all too aware of creating a racket, and followed his ears. The faint noise he could make out amid the sounds of the storm outside and the _drip-dripping_ of the leaking roof eventually led him to the bottom left (his left) corner of the building. And, strangely enough, not to the moody, broody Derek that Stiles had expected he’d find, but rather a hulking, wolfed-out Derek.

A wolfed-out Derek holding a dead fucking rat, _what the actual fuck._

Looking down beneath his own chin for a moment at the cat’s manky head which protruded sheepishly from his parka, Stiles then looked back up at Derek and the rat. Then just Derek. Then back to the dead rat again. Then he gagged, before pathetically trying to turn it into some sort of strangled cough. Clearing his throat pointlessly like the first-class professional Doof he was, Stiles then said, “Dude, I thought it was only critters like Princess Leia here,” he said, finger-gun pointing at the cat, “that brought their humans thoughtful little gifts like... _that_ .” Derek only growled at the comment, causing Leia The Cat to duck her head back inside of Stiles' coat again. “And I mean, like, it’s super kind of you and all, dude. Really. But I’m sorry; I am _not_ eating Ratatouille there for supper.”

Derek didn’t even bother to berate Stiles for his use of the word ‘dude’. “The rat's for the cat, you idiot,” he snarled through sharp teeth. Derek then moved his body in such a way that Stiles guessed he was shaking off his Were form. He turned away from Stiles slightly like he maybe hadn’t wanted Stiles to see him like that. Stiles bit into his lip, then flicked his tongue over it, smoothing over the dents he’d created, daring himself to say something that would… to say _something._

“You, er, you don’t have to hide yourself from me, man. You do know that, right?” Stiles offered, voice now soft. He was shitting his pants, maybe even more than when he thought he and Derek were going to be ripped apart by those other werewolves, but Stiles swallowed his fear of fucking-up and continued. “I like you just fine the way you are, Der.” 

Derek’s head whipped back around, fast as light, giving Stiles mental whiplash. The look on the werewolf’s face was so open—so uncharacteristically vulnerable—that it took Stiles by surprise.

Being speechless was _not_ a state Stiles was overly au fait with.

Derek’s mouth looked as if it wanted to move but couldn’t, his eyes screaming whatever words his lips didn’t know how to say.

  
  


_Fuck. He is so fucking beautiful._

  
  


As if a switch had flipped, innocent Lost Boy Derek Hale was then instantly the closed-off Sourwolf once more. In the space of a heartbeat, his features were solidifying back into their usual hard lines. Stiles knew he had to act quickly. "I'm not scared of you anymore, Der," he said, tilting his head to try and catch Derek's attention again. "I know you won't hurt me."

After an audible sigh, Derek hesitantly looked up.

Stiles took the opportunity to reach out—both mentally and physically—not really sure what he was doing but doing it anyway. He touched the sleeve of Derek's Henley and ran his fingers along it, gently stroking down Derek's arm until meeting the warmth of Derek’s skin, gliding over his wrist bone. Stiles' fingertips then found themselves in the curve of Derek's hand, instinctively swirling some sort of pattern. It took Stiles a moment to realise he was tracing the outline of Derek's tattoo on Derek's palm. He wondered briefly if Derek was aware of it.

Derek was seemingly frozen, unsure of the gesture. Or of Stiles.

_Or of himself._

When Derek's eyes met with Stiles', they were a bright, glowing red.

Stiles started, "Derek, I—" 

"Don't," the Werewolf growled harshly, top lip curling. But he didn’t pull his hand away from Stiles’ touch.

Stiles saw past the invented anger to the human part of Derek and could see his own want reflected in Derek's scowl, in the set of his jaw, in the moonlight that shone through a windowpane and glinted in those red, red eyes. There had always been something that fizzed, like electricity, simmering between Stiles and Derek. And Stiles was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who felt its live-wire buzz. The adrenaline now pumping through Stiles' veins was fortifying his bravery and, boldly, he said, “Why not, Der? What are you afraid of?”

Derek’s features softened again, just a little, and that pained look was now painted across his face again. “Stiles, Weres don’t mix well with…” but he cut himself short, now pulling his hand away from Stiles'. “I’ve tried this before, with other humans, and it… it never ends well.”

Regardless of the motion of Derek backing away from Stiles—of the obvious rebuttal—Stiles’ heart rate went from revving in third gear straight to accelerating into fifth.

  
  


_That was not an outright_ No.

  
  


Derek was... into Stiles? Derek liked Stiles back?

Derek liked Stiles in the way Stiles liked Derek.

  
  


_Oh, wow. Oh... fucking WOW._

  
  


Derek Hale was into Stiles Stilinski. It just sounded as if he were scared of...

_The reality of it actually happening?_

  
  
  


Stiles grinned, full of mischief. “Yeah? Well, I’m not like any other humans,” he said with a wink, such unerring confidence a very odd but very welcome feeling. A hairline crack appeared in the Sourwolf's mask—Derek could seemingly not help the rolling of his eyes any more than Stiles could help to elicit it. It was a look that Stiles was (contrary to prior experience) really starting to like. Well, at least when it was Derek’s handsome face that was wearing the look. Now on a roll of his own, Stiles threw an arm around Derek’s shoulders and said, “C’mon Sourwolf. I got some snacks and a couple bottles of water. Let’s go get something-that-resembles-comfortable back at the office, huh, workmate?” Derek glared down at Stiles’ arm around him, then up at Stiles. Stiles wholeheartedly ignored the reticence on Derek’s face. “Oh, and Princess Leia here has actually already had a hearty meal of tender-yet-incredibly-chewy-and-dry beef jerky sticks. So, as kind of you as it was to think of our newly fostered pet, you can lose the rodent, babe.” Stiles pressed his lips together and patted at Derek’s shoulder. “Sorry Ratatouille,” he then said to the rat.

Derek growled again. “Do _not_ call me ba—”

“It’s one or the other, buddy. You don’t like babe? Then it'll be right back to dude, dude,” Stiles stated matter of factly. Derek only stared straight ahead, obviously refusing to play into Stiles’ clever little game. His jaw clenched a few times, then he simply dropped the stiff rat and joined Stiles on making their way back to the small back room. Not that he had much choice in the matter, not without making a big deal of Stiles’ new-found, touchy-feely affection for him; Stiles was still holding Derek in a death-grip because Stiles' adrenaline-boosted confidence had begun to dilute into a slightly less potent lingering bravado.

  
  


_Not letting him go in case he doesn't let me get away with this shit again._

  
  


Derek, unsurprisingly, pointedly ignored the new situation that was him and Stiles walking arm in arm. Well, arm in no-arm, but whatever. It was a start.

  
  


_Gonna get that smile out of him if it kills me._

  
  


Looking only directly ahead again, Derek dryly suggested, “We should try to get some sleep, soon. It’ll be best to leave this place at first light.”

  
  


_Need to get him to open up. Need to get closer to him._

“Yeah, sure thing. Whatever you say, babe,” Stiles agreed, although he had anything but sleep on his mind.

Stiles now had a couple of wagers with himself:

1) To earn a genuine smile from Derek

2) To find out the exact cause of Derek’s whining—Derek's anguish—from earlier on

And Stiles was _not_ planning on losing to himself, _nuh-uh._ The stakes were higher than high; this was going to call for a trusty, very serious age-old, tried and tested method.

  
Stiles grinned to himself again at his genius plan.

_Truth or Dare, Derek Hale?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Stiles,
> 
> I love and appreciate your downright cheek, boi.
> 
> Love, me xx
> 
> Der is actually sooooo on board with this ship, he just needs a helping hand to pull down the rigging... YOU GO, SEAMAN STILES! Eheheheh.
> 
> So, you ready for some heartfelt Truths and sexy Dares in the next chapter? Hope so!
> 
> Back soon with another update :)


	5. Truth or Dare?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another few moments, Stiles drew a breath then blew it harshly from pursed lips. “Okay, I cannot sit here in silence, Der. It's just a biological impossibility for me. Soooo… Truth or dare? And, please, don’t be President Sourwolf and just say no, okay?”
> 
> _What the actual fuck?_
> 
> “No.”
> 
> Stiles, undeterred by Derek’s reticence because of fucking course he was, carried on regardless. “Alright,” he sighed. “If Der-Bear is too shy to start, I’ll go first,” he was now speaking in a high-pitched voice to the cat. Stiles tapped a beautiful long finger against his chin, as if deep in thought. “I’ll go with… truth.”
> 
> “Then you’ll have to ask yourself a question. I’m not playing some stupid game.” Derek huffed.
> 
> _Because it’s way too dangerous a game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, life has got in the way of this chapter's publication. Sorry for the delay, my dudes! BUT it's here now PLUS I have started chapter six AND things are finally heating up like Parrish when a Supe dies... The full moon is really starting to play havoc with Der's horny wolf! Hope you enjoy ;)
> 
> PS I've added a few tags.

Derek had the sensation his head was submerged underwater.

Every other part of him was on fire.

He had allowed Stiles to _touch,_ the kid breaching a thing that was supposed to be unbreachable. Something locked-away. Unspoken. And Derek had no idea of what to do with that. He needed to remind himself that his attraction to Stiles was just an inconvenience; Stiles an unfortunately _beyond_ pretty but perpetual thorn in his side.

_But the way he’d reached out…_

Nobody had ever touched Derek quite like that.

Stiles probably just wanted what plenty of other horny seventeen-year-old’s wanted. The only thing most people seemed to want out of Derek.

And when Stiles… when he said… 

_Babe?_

The kid had to be screwing with him. Derek had stupidly let his guard down and Stiles was taking it as an invitation to try to get lucky. That was all.

Probably. 

_Focus._

Derek absolutely could not focus.

Now back in the small office room, Stiles had removed his arm from around Derek's shoulders and Derek, although admonishing himself for letting it stay there as long as he had, missed it fiercely.

The only times he was touched these days was either in a brawl; during pack bonding; or when the snake-like limbs of his touchy-feely Beta, Erica, would slither around his waist when she was sucking up to her Alpha—none of which aroused even a sliver of the frenzy Stiles had created by swirling fingertips lightly in Derek’s palm.

_Not. Even. Close._

"...and then _I_ said, 'So, you like boys too?' and then _she_ said, 'Do you?' and I was like _ohmygod_ …" Stiles was rabbiting on about… something or other.

Derek had kind of zoned out, fingers combing through the long fur of Princess Lei— _the cat_. Stiles was busy emptying the pockets of his parka out onto the desk and was talking and talking and talking without stopping for breath as if he were going for gold.

In the midst of both Derek's Stiles-centric frustrations and the black comedy that was them living through an episode of _So Weird_ _,_ he hadn't thought about the consequences of Stiles wearing Derek's leather underneath his parka. Not until now, that is.

_His stupid, intoxicating scent will be clinging to every goddamn fibre._

Derek was about to dread thinking what it would mean once the jacket was returned to him, when, in under a second, he was struggling to get a particular image out of his mind. Shit, he really was trying his level best but just couldn’t seem to scrub away the new x-rated scene his masochistic brain had produced as a big, fat _fuck you very much, Derek._

_Gripping the leather in one hand, bared claws… whole face buried in the lining of the jacket and inhaling, deep… leaking dick in the other hand, pumping like a fucking jackhammer and getting off to the spicy scent of_ Stiles Stiles Stiles…

Christ. The moon really had it out for him tonight. 

Making everything even worse was—in the aftermath of Stiles’ arm having been wrapped around him—Derek now had a taster of the kid’s teasing cinnamon-scent smeared all over the shoulders of his Henley, lingering like old faith.

“If you’ve gotta piss, we should go do that now,” Derek blurted. “I’ll take the right corner, you take the left. I plan on shoving the desk up against the door for extra safety when we turn in, so...”

_So fucking run, before you get shoved up against it and mauled._

Stiles’ monologue ended abruptly. “Dude, were you even listening to me? Like, at all?”

“Don't call me dude.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Okay, whatever, babe.” He grinned mischievously—but did make to leave the office one last time before Derek would barricade them into the damp, cramped space. Derek followed close behind, eyeing the dark moles dusting the back of Stiles’ neck and fighting the urge to lick a wet stripe up the trail.

Once Derek had turned the corner, his fingers flew to the zipper on his jeans, dick heavy in his hand in a heartbeat. With his other hand leaning on the factory wall, he began jacking furiously, in disbelief he was actually doing this yet frantically inhaling the heady aroma of _Stiles_ that had penetrated the fabric of his Henley as he fucked himself into his fist.

Shit, Stilinski made him so goddamn hard. Derek's thoughts were straight back to that mole-peppered swan-neck.

_The smooth-looking ivory skin; how it would feel to let his tongue swipe at the goosebumps he'd put there… how he'd sink blunt, human teeth into the meat of it and Stiles would moan, filthy, call Derek_ babe _again while looking back at Derek from under hooded, long-lashed eyes and then lean in, Stiles' own rogue tongue flicking out and lapping at Derek’s lips, hot as flame, sucking them into that sinful mouth of his and—_

Derek came so fast his vision blurred and he tasted blood from biting the inside of his cheeks so damn hard.

His head a fairground waltzer, Derek groped about to his side, free hand landing on the top of a pile of flat-pack cereal boxes. He used it to scrape his come from the wall then crushed it in on itself and tossed it into the corner, behind a stack of pallets. From the other side of the factory, Stiles wouldn't be able to hear how fast Derek was breathing, but—while forcing out a piss in record-time then shoving his dick back in his pants and zipping himself up—he still attempted to drag its pace kicking and screaming to somewhere close to normal as quickly as Werely possible.

He could hear Stiles humming to himself and zipping his own fly and the thought of Stiles' hand having just touched Stiles' dick was enough to make Derek's own dick twitch in interest again.

_Seriously, fuck the full moon._

Derek rounded the corner and Stiles was already heading back into the office. Derek waited a few moments more, to just _breathe_ , before trailing behind like a guilty teen. When Stiles became aware of Derek's presence, he turned, brows knitted.

Derek's heart jumped into his throat but his brows mirrored Stiles'. "What?" 

“So, like, do Werewolves piss like dogs, or what? I just pissed for gold and, dude, you took even longer than me!"

_Fuck._

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek's head hoped the tried and tested outright shut-downs he usually employed would do the job. His dick, however, was now practically laughing at him. Derek changed the subject, quick as the thunder outside was following the lightning. “Just get out of the way so I can move this thing, will you?” he nodded towards the office desk. 

“Ooh, I love it when you take control like that.” Stiles’ inherent sarcasm bit like arctic wind, but he moved out of the desk’s trajectory while Derek shoved the thing up against the closed office door. Derek clicked the lock, sealing himself and his fate inside, for a whole night alone with Stiles Stilinski _._

_Just breathe._

Derek turned, frustrated that his jacking off hadn’t seemed to make a bit of difference to his predicament, as Stiles sat down on the sofa. All essence of _cocky_ had now been replaced with _awkward._ Derek, surreptitiously scanning Stiles’ profile as the kid looked down at the cat stowed in his— _their_ jackets, had never been so happy of Stiles’ inability to scent like a Were; not just because of those small traces of _come_ that currently stained the inside of Derek’s boxer-briefs, but also the power to detect emotion. Derek coveted feelings for the seventeen-year-old he had no right to. Feelings he routinely shoved down into the dirt and crushed with his boot heel, not letting even himself ruminate on what they meant. Tonight would be the longest he and Stiles had ever spent together. And the first time it would be just the two of them.

Stiles shifted position, plastic coating of the sofa squeaking underneath him, seemingly trying to get a little more comfortable. Derek took a seat on the desk chair, arms folded into armour across his body.

The silence was at once both an unexpected relief and a stifling hindrance.

After another few moments, Stiles drew a breath then blew it harshly from pursed lips. “Okay, I cannot sit here in silence, Der. It's just a biological impossibility for me. Soooo… Truth or dare? And, _please_ , don’t be President Sourwolf and just say no, okay?”

_What the actual fuck?_

“No.”

Stiles, undeterred by Derek’s reticence because _of fucking course he was_ , carried on regardless. “Alright,” he sighed. “If Der-Bear is too shy to start, I’ll go first,” he was now speaking in a high-pitched voice to the cat. Stiles tapped a beautiful long finger against his chin, as if deep in thought. “I’ll go with… truth.”

“Then you’ll have to ask yourself a question. I’m not playing some stupid game.” Derek huffed.

_Because it’s way too dangerous a game._

Stiles scoffed, “ _Some stupid game?_ Yeah, like you’ve never played Truth or Dare before!”

Derek stretched and cracked his neck, his wolf stirring at being poked at with Stiles’ most irritating stick. “Yes, Stiles, you’re right. I have in fact played Truth or Dare. With my sisters. When I was _nine years old_ ,” Derek replied, pointedly.

Stiles frowned. “You cannot tell me you never did this shit at high school, dude. Everybody plays. Like, all the time.”

“Well, I didn’t get a chance to be a kid for very long, now did I?” The words were out of Derek’s mouth before he had time to process exactly what he was giving away with their candour. They now hung in the air, the truth a thick heavy smoke lingering between him and Stiles.

Stiles unsurprisingly breathed it in like a hit from a bong. “Yeah, I, uh… I know that feeling pretty well, actually.”

“What the hell do you know about losing family?” Derek spat venom, too quick to defend his feelings to realise his grave mistake.

It had only been mentioned once, by Scott, how Stiles had lost his mother when he was even younger than Derek had been when his own mother—and the rest of his family—had been killed. “Shit, Stiles, I…” Derek floundered, hating himself even more than usual.

“No, it’s okay. It’s not like I ever talked to you about it or anything.”

Derek’s armour crashed down around him like a castle of playing cards. “Scott, he… Scott told me what happened. To your Mom. Stiles, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just…" Derek swallowed, tasted burden and subjection and old rage. "...Just react, sometimes, I guess. It’s kind of—”

“Like muscle memory?" Stiles finished Derek's sentence. "Yeah, I know. Been there myself plenty of times, man.” 

Derek identified the tired smell of sadness that now wafted from Stiles. He knew it just as well as he knew the full-moon mantra he’d learned as a small child—the one he now chanted in his head to stop himself from crossing the room and just cradling the kid’s head to his chest in recognition and consolation.

_We're the same._

Derek and Stiles were not the same. Couldn't be more different. Derek wasn't even human.

_The same. Broken._

Derek just nodded his head. He couldn't pull his eyes from Stiles' praline gaze which was flitting from Derek to everything else in the room and back again, on repeat.

_He needs this. I need this._

Derek took a breath and tried not to snarl. “Okay. Truth or dare?”

Stiles’ smirk grew like a cracked mirror across his face, slowly, from one side to the other. “Alright! Game on!” he nodded, obviously pleased with Derek’s capitulation. “Okay, so. I heard some of your truth, so... I guess it’s fair you get to hear some of mine; I'll stick with _truth_. Shoot.”

Derek was surprised and relieved at the kid’s choice—with the way the full moon was urging Derek to do things he really shouldn’t be doing, giving Stiles a dare right now would _not_ be a good idea. Not at all. He thought for a couple more seconds, about what little he knew of Stiles’ past; wondered about what kind of life Stiles had before he and Derek met; about what Derek would want to learn about the boy who ran with wolves.

“Do you like boys?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Derek,
> 
> Now you're getting it! I'm proud of you, Alpha :)
> 
> Love, me x
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I'll hopefully be back sooner with the next chapter, so subscribe if you don't want to miss Stiles' answer!
> 
> I'm super slow at replies but will ALWAYS get back to you eventually... Comments are like oxygen—writers need them to survive!
> 
> Big love, Cassidy :)

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Derek,
> 
> You're a 1st Class doof.
> 
> Love, me. xx
> 
> Chapter two will probably be up sometime between Christmas and New Year, maybe before? Stay tuned, stay subscribed...
> 
> EDIT: I'm actually nearing the end of ch2! So it may be up sooner than expected! PLUS, I've decided to make this POV Alternative so next up is Stilesy :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm generally monumentally slow with correspondence but I do ALWAYS reply to any comments eventually :)
> 
> <3


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